


Judgement's Vessel

by SableGear0



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Developing Friendships, Domestic, Gen, Injury Recovery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Work In Progress, lots of headcanons, naming unnamed characters for the sake of convenience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:35:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26247238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SableGear0/pseuds/SableGear0
Summary: The Guardian sheathed his weapon across his back. One arm around the Drifter’s shoulders, the other under his knees, he lifted his fallen friend from the dust. He was heavier than he remembered, from the first time he had carried a suffering stranger to safety. Still, he would be no great burden on the long climb back.===The Drifter has done battle with the creature locked away in the Abyss, and returned. However, he is far from unharmed. Nursing injuries to both his mind and body, the Drifter remains in the care of his friend the Guardian while he recovers.  As the two get to know one another, the Drifter grapples with his experiences in both the distant and much more recent past.Content warnings for blood, injury, and violence. Tags and warnings to be updated as more chapters are added.
Relationships: The Drifter & The Drunk (Hyper Light Drifter), The Drifter & The Guardian (Hyper Light Drifter)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	1. Part 1 - Die

It had made itself known first through his dreams. Every appearance, every violent vision not a threat but a promise: Face me, and you will die.

Descending he had felt its presence. It flickered at the edges of his vision. It grazed his senses like a gust against a window. It stalked the echoes of his footsteps through the Abyss. And when he released it, opened the doors to its lair, it ate the sound that should have been; an exhalation of long-awaited satisfaction, for they finally stood face to face.

He knew its name – Judgement – and it knew his.

The Drifter struck first. Incautious, but he refused to be on the defensive. Judgement would press any advantage it could get. Failure was not an option. It was too costly.

Quick steps brought him in and out of the horror’s reach. Striking with bullet and blade then dashing away before it could catch him. But it wasn’t Judgement he had to kill, if it could be killed this way. It bled, it screeched when he wounded it but its lifeforce was not tied to its body. It would return, again and again, until the Cell was destroyed.

A slash across its single horned eye made Judgement squeal and recoil, and the Drifter took his chance. He sprinted to the far end of the chamber and leapt – sword drawn back, then thrust forward – to strike the diamond-shaped Immortal Cell. The blade stuck in, cracking the outer case not like glass, but ice, or the shell of an insect.

Judgement lashed out with a tendril, catching him around his middle to haul him back. His blade snagged, the Drifter felt his shoulder tear but held tight to his sword as he was pulled from the Cell and hurled to the ground. The crack in the Cell spider-webbed, then gave out. Oily pink hyperlight fuel gushed from the broken diamond into the void below.

Judgement screamed. A sound that encompassed more than just hearing. Rage so absolute it spilled across every one of the Drifter’s senses, crippling his perception. Still prone, he struggled to clasp his weapon with his left hand so he could still wield it, driven to end the fight. The snap of bones chipped the walls pressing at his mind – a crushing weight on his left arm anchored his senses long enough to see Judgment standing on it, leaning close out of the deafening haze. Its one eye loomed within reach of his face, squinting, weeping a thick pink ichor that reeked of chemical hate. 

At the edge of his vision he saw its arm move. It was a moment from his nightmares, a promise kept. The screaming rose again, pressing down on him as Judgment forced a spike half the width of his body through his core.

The Drifter’s mouth opened but there was no sound. No scream, no breath. Nor did Judgement withdraw its limb. Another tendril coiled around his neck and he felt himself being lifted, but only lifted. Could he not feel the beast choking him past the pain searing through his body? Or did Judgement no longer have the strength to tighten its grip?

There was a spreading feeling of constriction, more tendrils creeping across his face, reaching for his eyes and mouth, restraining limbs he already couldn’t move. But Judgement was finished. The horror’s body began to shred itself, falling to tattered pieces as the last of the fuel in the Immortal Cell drained away. The Drifter slipped from its grasp, falling to his knees.

The chamber was collapsing, arcing with colourless energy and buzzing with feedback from the drained fuel. He regained his feet as best he could but struggled to stay balanced, doubling over with a racking cough. Blood stained his scarf, the ground, his boots. Gasping and hacking, he forced himself to walk.

He couldn’t feel his arms. He couldn’t reach the amulet at his neck. Anything more than pressing forward at a staggering walk made him choke and cough. The passage still crumbling behind him, he stopped to lean back against something, a wall or a statue. Nerves deadened by pain it only felt cold. The Drifter sank to the floor. Breathing was useless. Even with the air so thick with dust and noise he felt as if it would not fill him, it simply passed through him. What light remained in the Abyss flickered away into blackness. Shadows of a familiar scene – a campfire, a sea-coast, a forest – were burned into his eyes as they closed.

\\\\-\|/-//

Halvard was one of the first outside when the tremor shook the town. Shop-keeps chased their clients outside, away from the shade of the buildings and into open space, lest anything begin to crumble. Ears were pricked on otter- and canid-folk alike, hackles raised on avian townsfolk. A lizardman bellied down on the ground, pressing his palms and the side of his head to the earth, listening.

“Below us!” he gasped, looking up, “Something’s right below us!”

Another quake. Halvard felt eyes on him, peers seeking direction. He gestured to a few in the crowd, other community leaders, calling out to them, “Get people out of their homes and into the street in case the tremors get worse. If any cracks start to open up, keep your distance. Check the far edges of town, make sure everyone’s safe.” He turned back towards his house, “I’m going down there.”

The Swordmaster, a lean otter-woman, shouted after him, “What – down _where_?”

Halvard jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the town square as he ducked into his doorway, “Down _there!_ ”

He strapped on his cuirass and donned his helmet, forgoing the rest of his armour in favour of haste. Sword in hand and sprite following, Halvard jogged to the town square. People were already gathering in the open space, shying away from the graven monument on the flagstones at the town’s exact center. The short pillars at its cardinal corners were raised but no longer lit. He touched the ground at the pattern’s heart; the elevator beneath his feet shuddered to life and another rumble shook the town. Halvard the Guardian descended into the Abyss.

It was a much longer ride down than he expected. A hatch at the top of the shaft shut out the sunlight like an eye closing. He could feel the muffled trembling of the earth around him and hoped the elevator would not collapse. At the bottom, he paused a moment to click on his sprite’s lamp. There was no light here.

Desperate to hurry but afraid to rush, he took the stairs down as quickly as he could. Loose stone and rubble cluttered the path more and more further down. The tremors faded, stopped. Echoes of distant crumbling stone sounded out of the black, disturbing the stillness that became absolute at the very lowest stair. The air felt thick, dusty and electric. The urge to cough drew near but never took him, merely pressed on him like water pressure in the silent depths.

His sprite pinged him with interest, detecting something familiar. Past a heap of broken stone in the washed-out light of its lamp, he saw what it had found. The Drifter sat slumped against a totem statue, unmoving, his own sprite inactive on the floor beside him.

Drawing nearer to kneel by the Drifter he saw the signs of his friend’s battle. Blood stained the wall behind him, the scarf that covered his face, the front of his shirt and kilt. A hole the size of Halvard’s fist had been punched clean through his body. His left hand still half-closed around the handle of his sword.

Dust swirled into the stagnant air when he picked up the Drifter’s sprite to check its logs. Its last entry was a self-shutdown notice, triggered by a zero vital-signs alert, preceded by several minutes of critical medical warnings that had gone unaddressed.

Halvard set the inactive sprite down beside its master and took a long, slow breath, watching the dust motes in the lamplight. Grief and admiration mingled into a strange sentiment. The Drifter had accomplished his impossible task, finished what he set out to do – finished what Halvard himself had failed to do. It seemed a poor thanks to simply leave him here, yet there could be no more fitting tomb. He had been bound to this place even before the start. Here he would remain. There was nothing to be gained from bringing him back–

His sprite pinged again. Halvard drew in a sharp breath and held it, thinking it was a hostile warning, but it was only a general alert, no message came with it. However, it brought his focus back to his surroundings and, still holding his breath, he saw the reason for the alert.

It was the dust. Even without his breath the dust around the Drifter was moving, eddying in some faint current. He shifted alongside his fallen friend and pulled the scarf down from his face with his free hand, grimacing at the blood around the Drifter’s mouth. Could it be?

He held the flat of his blade near the Drifter’s face, leaning so as not to block the light. A small spot of condensation fogged the red metal, faded, a pause, then fogged it again, faded. He was breathing – the Drifter was breathing!

Halvard sheathed his weapon across his back and eased the Drifter’s rapier from his senseless grip. He tucked the weapon through his belt along with the inactive sprite. One arm around the Drifter’s shoulders, the other under his knees, Halvard lifted his fallen friend from the dust. He was heavier than he remembered, from the first time he had carried a suffering stranger to safety. Still, he was lighter than he should have been for his size, no great burden on the long climb back.

Sunlight, breeze, the voices of a dispersing crowd all came as a shock when Halvard reached the surface, it was all so far removed from the stygian silence below. He shook his head to clear it and jogged as smoothly as he could to the Apothecary’s shop, trying not to jostle his passenger. He leaned in the door, calling out to the owner, “Dedan!”

An aged tanuki stooped over a fallen shelf lifted his head, ears piqued, “Hal?” He turned his head towards the door, marble-white eyes blinking but not seeing. Dedan sniffed, “What am I smelling? Are you hurt?”

“No, but I have someone who is.”

“How bad?”

“He’s barely alive–”

“Then what are you in _here_ for?” Dedan waved at the door, “Go make him comfortable. I’ll be right with you, just need to get my things.”

Halvard left, again at his steady jog. Dedan followed a minute later, toting a large leather case. Entering Halvard’s home he veered right towards the kitchen, talking across the room to the Guardian while he washed his hands.

“Alright, who’s the patient? What am I dealing with?”

Halvard tossed the Drifter’s cape aside, looking over the injured warrior sprawled on his bed. “It’s the Drifter, that new traveller who’s been in and out of town. He’s been run through, at least one of his arms is broken, and he had the veil-cough something fierce before.”

Dedan sauntered over with his case in hand. “He’s breathing?”

“Yes.”  
“Good,” the tanuki bumped Halvard’s midsection with his bushy tail, “Get that armour off and wash your hands. This is going to be a two-person job.” Halvard did as bidden. Dedan spoke aloud while he assessed their patient. “What _am_ I smelling? It’s so strange...”

“I don’t know, Dedan, I don’t smell anything.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. I can smell the blood and the dust but there’s something else. It’s sort of,” he sniffed audibly, “chemical? Like ozone maybe?” Halvard returned to the tanuki musing, unstrapping the Drifter’s left bracer. “I hope he’s not too attached to this shirt, we’re going to have to cut him out of it,” he held up the splintered bracer, “and this is _very_ broken.”

“The armour?”

“No, his arm. Open that case for me, will you? Wait–” Dedan waved Halvard’s hands away, “Go put the kettle on first. If we don’t need it for him, I’m going to want some tea later.”


	2. Part 2 - Wake

_A rushing sound. Only a memory of waves. He stood in shallow water that stretched beyond sight. He turned to face the sun. It sat low in the sky, a molten orb melting onto the horizon. Its warmth seemed a foreign but not unwelcome comfort. He squinted into the light and walked towards it, feeling that warmth on his front._

_But it was cold at his back. A breeze or a breath? He stopped and turned – nothing but his own shadow; his height, his shape rendered in cold air and an absence of light. He turned to face the sun again and continued to walk, trying to leave the cold behind._

_The sun shrank as he followed it, warping the landscape and pulling it away, leaving only blackness and a single word spoken – a voice he did not recognize._

W A K E

\\\\-\|/-//

Warmth and dimness crept into his senses out of the black. Soft orange light, indistinct smells, distant sounds, a dull ache in his body, a stale taste in his mouth. The Drifter let out a small huffing cough, jolting into consciousness. He found himself lying down in a familiar room lit with a welcoming incandescent glow. Two voices, blurred but familiar, conversed out of sight.

He stifled another small cough and felt the ache in his chest surge, then quiet. An unusual scent became apparent once he detected it; something at once sharp and earthy, herbal, but not unpleasant. He tried to swallow the stale taste and coughed again. A deep voice from the other room brightened.

“Hey,” it came with a hint of a laugh, its owner moving into view, “There he is. Welcome back.” It was a human, tall and broad with brown hair and pale eyes, a short beard, a wary smile that faded into uncertainty at the Drifter’s look of confusion.

The other voice chuckled from afar. “I don’t think he recognizes you, Hal.”

“Oh, right. You’ve never seen me without my helmet on.” The human leaned out of sight, then returned, holding a barbute helm with a vivid pink sheen. His smile grew back when the Drifter blinked with recognition. “My name is Halvard. We’ve met before, I just never had time to introduce myself.” He set the helmet down and knelt at the bedside, “I’ve brought you back to my home again. I hope that’s alright.”

The Drifter tried to nod but couldn’t quite lift his head, closing his eyes for emphasis instead.

Halvard nodded back. “Can I get you anything?” A sympathetic wince when the Drifter stifled a cough, “Water maybe? Or tea? Dedan, how about you?”

“No tea for him,” the owner of the other voice approached; an aging tanuki who walked with the apprehensive confidence of a blind creature in a familiar room. “Not yet. And none for me either. I’ve had a break, so I should be on my way. It’s getting late and I have a shop to clean up.”

“Did you need help?”

“I’ll be fine. The two of you need to rest, especially him.” Dedan pointed more down than at the Drifter. “I’ve left an herbal tea that will help if the pain wakes him up, but for now he should be fine without it. You two take it easy.”

“Thank-you so much, Dedan. Have a good night.”

The tanuki waved without looking on his way out the door, leaving the Guardian and the Drifter alone with the fading hint of an evening breeze from outside.

Halvard drew a long breath and pushed himself to his feet, “Let’s get you something to drink.”

The Drifter watched him go, trying to restrain a yawn. He remembered the sound of running water, the sight of Halvard returning with something in hand, a vague sensation of cold, but anything beyond that was swallowed by the void of sleep.

\\\\-\|/-//

He woke in the dark to a rising ache through his chest and shoulder. The Drifter groaned and tried to push himself upright to see the room. Halvard sat nearby on a crate, reading by the glow of a small lamp. He looked up when his patient stirred.

“Hey now,” he set his book aside, lifting a hand as if to push the Drifter back down, “Don’t try to get up. What do you need?” A cough. Halvard nodded, “Just lie back.” He rose and disappeared into the dark for a moment, returning with a large mug in hand. “I’m surprised you’re up again. I thought you’d be out for a while when you fell asleep on me the first time.” Halvard knelt by the Drifter’s head, propping him up to help him drink.

The water was cold. Its nothing-taste so refreshing, washing away the staleness of sleep and the tang of blood. Satisfied, the injured warrior lay back. The Drifter watched his caretaker, trying to parse his expression in the dark. Solemn concern cast heavy shadows on Halvard’s face. The Drifter did his best to smile and find his voice, managing a whisper.

“Thanks.”

A smile lit the Guardian’s face and he leaned back, sitting on the floor beside the bed. He shook his head, still smiling, “I’m just glad you’re alive. You gave me a serious scare.”

The Drifter looked away, past Halvard towards the lamp. He did not have to try to remember his visit to the Abyss. It was incised in his mind. It would never leave him. He had never expected to leave it.

He tried to shift again and grunted when his shoulder protested. Halvard lurched forward onto his feet in a crouch, “What is it?”

“My shoulder.”

“The right one?”

“I think it’s out of joint.”

“Let’s have a look here,” Halvard rose and adjusted the lamp, angling it up towards the ceiling to offer a bit more ambient light. He examined the joint as gently as he could manage, but the Drifter still flinched at his touch. The pressure hurt. His hands were too warm. “Can you move it at all?”

“No.”

“As long as you keep still, you should be alright to sleep on it. I can find someone to help set it tomorrow. It’s late, and I wouldn’t want to try it myself. I don’t want to make it worse.”

The Drifter gave a small nod, “Could you...?” He tipped his head back, indicating the helmet still in place, “Could you take this off for me?”

“Oh,” Halvard allowed himself half a chuckle, “Of course. I’d say we left it on in case you were bruised, but honestly, I couldn’t figure out how to get it off you. It wouldn’t just lift off.”

“No, you have to tilt it forward.”

“Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s–”

“There we go.” Halvard stepped away and blinked, looking between the Drifter and the helmet in his hands. “Oh.”

“What?”

“I... Don’t take this the wrong way,” Halvard turned to set the helmet aside by the rest of his guest’s gear in a corner, “For some reason I had just assumed you were bald.” He turned back, “It also occurs to me I don’t actually know your name.”

The Drifter said nothing.

Halvard waved away the silence, “Don’t feel like you have to tell me, I know that can be a bit of a sticking-point for... uh...” the Guardian paled, visible even in the diffuse glow. The phrase went unsaid but the Drifter heard it just the same.

“Myn,” he said softly, offering the word like a correction.

“Pardon?”

“I’m a myn. That’s what we call ourselves.”

“Right.” Halvard paused a moment, nodding, absorbing the new fact. He tried to smile around his unease, “I’ve just been calling you ‘Drifter,’ I hope that’s alright.”

“That’s fine, but–”

“Still, you don’t have to tell me.”

“It’s...” _M a y a s w e l l ,_ the Drifter’s mind snagged and he lost the word.

Halvard waved again casually, “It’s not important. We’ll get there if we get there.” He sat beside the bed again, legs crossed, elbows on his knees, “You’re well, that’s what matters.”

The Drifter nodded as best he could, needing a moment to find his voice again. He looked himself over, what he could see of himself at least; left forearm secure in a sandwich of splint and bandages, right arm untouched but unmoveable. He flexed the fingers of his left hand. Mobile, but it made his forearm ache to bend too much. With his left, he pushed down the blanket covering him partway, finding a layer of bandages bound about his chest and abdomen.

“What exactly...?” There had been a wound here, hadn’t there? Something awful. “What did you...?” It was nauseating to think about. The blackness. The screaming. The spike. He had to look at Halvard to ground himself. “How? I... I had...”

The Guardian had to force a smile to try and calm his patient, “Don’t worry, Dedan took care of that. There’s this bio-gel stuff he uses for larger wounds, makes it himself, I think. He patched you up with a hefty jar-full. That stuff will close up a bullet hole in a day, I figure you’ll be good as new in a few weeks.”

The Drifter squinted at the ceiling in the dark. “Was he a medic before?”

“Dedan? Maybe ages ago, during the war. Why?”

“That sounds like military gear...”

“All I know is that old dog is a miracle worker. I wouldn’t still be here without him.” The Drifter stayed looking at the ceiling. Halvard touched him on the arm but shied away when his patient flinched at the contact, “Hey, don’t think about it too much. You’re fine. It’s going to be fine.” No response. “You should try to get some sleep.”

The Drifter spoke when Halvard stood and turned around. He had fallen into a whisper again, “Will you stay up?”

“Did you want me to?”

“If you could... and... leave the light on?”

“Sure thing.”

He kept his attention on the ceiling, listening, letting his eyes unfocus to watch the shadows Halvard cast while he moved about the room. At length, the light shifted away. He followed it with his gaze to see Halvard turning the lamp towards himself to resume reading. The Guardian looked up to meet his eyes, then turned the lamp again. Indirect light splashed off the wall to brighten his side of the room; enough to both read by and comfort his guest.

The Drifter kept the light in his vision but did not watch his surroundings, instead turning his focus inward, trying to breathe away the anxiety that reached out to him from the shadows.

Where was the pain lurking? His whole core was a dull, fuzzy ache. Whatever Dedan had used to fill his wound made him feel numb. His shoulder was an immobile, persistent hurt. It throbbed angrily whenever he moved, held a subtle pulse with his heartbeat. His left arm, just the forearm, ached, becoming sharper when he moved his hand. He tried not to think how severely broken it might be, probably shattered from when–

He jolted himself back to the present with a short gasp that lanced through his chest. His strangled yelp of pain made Halvard fumble his book. He pressed back against the pillow, eyes shut tight and teeth grit against the fire rising in his flesh. He felt a weight disturb the pillow next to him, Halvard putting a hand down by his head.

He turned his face away, managing a “No,” between clenched teeth. The weight lifted, the Guardian backing off. He fought to calm his breathing before looking back. Pain coloured his expression with a fierceness that pushed Halvard back another step. “Don’t touch me.”

Halvard held his hands up, palms forward. “I won’t.”

The Drifter huffed a small sigh of frustration, trying to find something to rest his eyes on. He wanted to look his caretaker in the face but the note of genuine fear in Halvard’s manner made it difficult. The lamp felt too bright to look at now, the shadows too dark. He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be. I know it hurts.”

The crate creaked when Halvard sat. Through closed lids the Drifter felt the light change and opened his eyes to see the lamp turned up towards the ceiling again, softening the glow. The trace of fear on Halvard’s face had turned to worry; a look even more difficult to meet than the last. The Drifter wanted to shrink away, to bury himself in the covers and not be scrutinized like this. He glanced around, looking for highlights in the dark when Halvard’s question caught him off guard.

“What did you see down there?” At the startled blink, Halvard lifted a hand, speaking softly, “You don’t have to tell me now but, when you’re able, I’d like to know.”

He took a breath to focus, “I destroyed it... the Immortal Cell. I broke it and drained the fuel.”

A nod, “And the creature guarding it? You fought it. Did you learn its name?”

“Judgement.”

Concern, or perhaps confusion crossed the Guardian’s face, “Did it tell you?”

“No. I just sort of... knew. I could feel it.”

“And you killed it.”

“I watched it fall apart. It went to pieces when the fuel drained out.”

Halvard sat back with a long breath, looking off into the dark. “Judgement...” There was a pensive grumble, a sound the Drifter had heard before when they had crossed paths in the wilderness. “I’d shudder to say I’m envious but... I never did face the beast myself.”

“You’d seen it, though.”

“Only in my nightmares.”

“For the better.”

A slow nod. “I can’t imagine what it must have been like. You don’t have to tell me; I won’t push you to remember any more. I know it must be...” Halvard shook his head, redirecting, “I don’t want to cause you any more distress. You’re safe here, I don’t want you to be afraid. What’s passed is only a memory.”

Something kept the words from passing the Drifter’s lips, but he nodded his thanks and settled back, closing his eyes. Silence filled the room, spilling in from the night outside like water filling a tank, submerging them both. Sleep began to pull at the edges of his mind, dragging his thoughts down into indistinct nonsense, drowning him in the tranquil quiet that came after dark.


	3. Part 3 - Sleep

The sun was past its zenith when the Drifter woke the following day. Halvard watched him stir, dark eyes blinking open lazily. Unable to lift a hand to cover his mouth, the Drifter yawned like a cat; thin lips pulling back to show a set of small, sharp teeth. Startlingly predatory, but by no means dangerous.

Halvard allowed himself a chuckle while his guest roused himself, rubbing his face with his good hand, yawning again with what was almost a squeak.

“Good morning.”

His guest cleared his throat with a short cough, “Is it?”

“No, it’s closer to two. I figured it’s best to let you sleep for as long as you need, but I’m surprised you’re awake at all,” He glanced to the kitchen, “Hungry?”

A small hum, “Maybe in a bit.”

“Did you rest well?”

Habit made the Drifter try to shrug, but he cringed and clasped his injured shoulder, pointed teeth showing again in a grimace of pain. He noticed Halvard’s look and made a point of shutting his mouth, pressing his lips together. “Well enough,” he mumbled.

The Guardian directed his attention elsewhere, trying to be polite. “I’ll talk to Dedan today and see if I can get him to set that shoulder of yours. In the mean time, I’ll brew up some of that tea he left, if it’ll help with the pain.”

“Thank-you.”

Halvard rounded the dividing wall to his kitchen and filled a kettle, setting it to boil alongside the pot of stew he’d left on low heat. The tea Dedan had left was pressed into a dried puck, wrapped in thin paper. It took some digging, and dusting, to find and clean off a proper teapot. It had been years since he’d had occasion to use it.

Small noises of discomfort from the other room drew him back, teapot still in hand. The Drifter was trying to push himself upright, levering with his left elbow and his legs.

“What are you–? Hey, don’t try to get up.”

“I’m not,” the Drifter sank back down, one knee still bent, “I just needed to shift.”

“Well...” it would be rude to scold his patient outright, “Still, just take it easy, okay? You haven’t even been here a full day, don’t push yourself.” From across the room it was difficult to tell, but a wry smile appeared to twist his patient’s mouth in place of a reply. Halvard turned away for a moment to set down the teapot on his table, “At least your legs still work.”

He was met with a mortified stare on turning back.

“That wasn’t– I didn’t mean–” From afar he reached out to his guest, but the Drifter shrank down into the covers, looking up at the ceiling with a haunted expression. “I’m sorry. It’s just, Dedan wasn’t optimistic you’d be able to walk and– I shouldn’t have said that. I’m really sorry.”

No reply. Halvard hid an uncomfortable grimace by turning away. He filled the teapot and let it steep a few minutes before pouring a mug for his patient. The Drifter was laying still with his eyes closed when Halvard approached. He took a moment to look him over. His features weren’t quite human: a round face with high cheekbones, a low sort of bump in place of a nose, pointed ears, coarse white hair with no eyebrows. Pale blue skin. Dark eyes, when he opened his eyes; large and almond-shaped. An undefined black, like those of a bird or a deer.

“Uh, here,” Halvard set the mug down on the bedside table and crouched to help prop his guest up into a sitting position. “Give it a minute to cool off, and let me know if you have trouble lifting the mug.”

“Halvard,” it was the first time the Drifter had spoken his name. He took a pause to consider his words, “Don’t feel rude for staring. It doesn’t bother me.” He shrugged just his left shoulder, “Besides, you’re going to have to get used to me if I’m going to be here for a while.”

“I... suppose so.”

“If there’s anything you want to know, just ask. Really, it doesn’t bother me.”

“...Alright.”

He stood, watching the Drifter watch him back over the pause. He definitely had questions. Even though he insisted it wouldn’t be rude to ask–

“Are those–?” He gestured vaguely to the Drifter’s hand when he reached for the mug.

“Hm?” The myn hooked his fingers under the mug handle, flinching when he took up the weight of it.

“Um, your... You have...”

“Claws.”

“Are they–?”

“Sharp? Come find out for yourself.” He flinched again trying to lift the mug. Halvard ducked down, reached out to support the bottom of the mug, just enough to take the strain.

He met the Drifter’s gaze. His all-black eyes made his expression difficult to judge. His last statement had not sounded entirely like a threat, but the sarcasm was too shallow to make it a playful invitation.

He helped his patient lift the mug to his lips for a drink, then lower it into his lap, receiving a grateful nod.

“They’re not, really,” the Drifter murmured after a pause, flexing his fingers. “My gloves were reinforced if I needed to use them. But they’re not that sharp.”

Halvard nodded, helped his patient take another sip. “How’s the tea?”

“Kind of tastes like... dirt. And plant.” He drained his mug with Halvard’s help and breathed a long yawn. He leaned back and closed his eyes, “I know I should eat, but...”

“Go ahead and nap. Like I said, I’m surprised you’re even up to begin with.” The Drifter hummed, Halvard smiled even though he wasn’t looking. “I’m going to see if Dedan or someone can help set your shoulder. I’ll be back in a little while. You rest up.”

\\\\-\|/-//

Daylight haze and distant voices. A familiar stranger’s voice, he’d heard it before, maybe once or twice. Nasal, elongated. An avian voice? Were they near? The Guardian’s voice, he was near. He could feel him, the bass in his voice. The other was...

The Priest.

No.

The Hierophant loomed over him, a broad-shouldered pillar of elaborate sigils, topped with a headdress of gilded plumes, a golden beak. It reached out a clawed hand.

_No_.

He shrank away – tried to – but only pressed back into the softness behind him. His limbs wouldn’t respond. Everything felt heavy. Numb.

He couldn’t find his voice either. Bird claws seized his deadened arm. He huffed, gasped, tried to scream, to pull away, and couldn’t. Where was the Guardian?

“ _He wasn’t like this earlier_.”

His voice. So far.

“ _Hold him, will you?_ ” The Hierophant asked, gripping him by the arm with one hand, the other pressing down on his upper chest.

“ _Hey now..._ ” The Guardian was a blur at the side of his vision. A hand grasped his, another touched his forehead. “ _It’s okay, don’t struggle._ ”

_Don’t–?_

The Guardian sat by him, he must have, there was a sense of weight. The human held him firm and close; one arm across his chest, the other across his waist. He could feel his head resting somewhere by the Guardian’s hip, maybe against his leg. Why was he a part of this? Trapping him like this?

“ _This may hurt,_ ” said the avian Priest. 

It did.

Faintly, but it did. There was a pull, an organic _clunk_ of a joint popping into place, a searing rush mercifully deadened, an ache. He wheezed aloud, trying to speak. The Guardian was so near, but he couldn’t...

What was it? Why? Everything was so...

Distant...

And still slipping.

Into black.


	4. Part 4 - Bind

Something moved nearby. Before he was even fully conscious, the Drifter swiped a clawed hand in the direction of the movement, teeth bared in a waking snarl. Someone caught his arm gently at the wrist. A bass voice laughed and spoke both at once.

“Hey now! I thought you’d have slept off the feistiness by this point.”

The Drifter blinked, forcing himself to lucidity. Halvard was standing at the bedside, both hands around his wrist – his right wrist – smiling and trying to restrain laughter.

“I was...?” He looked to his hand, fingers still stiff and hooked, and relaxed, letting his arm drop out of Halvard’s grip. He looked up at the Guardian. There was a long pause before Halvard caught on that he wanted an explanation.

“So, Dedan wasn’t able to set your shoulder, but he helped me find someone who could. He’s an avian, an old egg-keeper named Zur. Apparently dislocated shoulders are a common injury for young avians still learning to fly, so he knew what he was doing. You were napping when I left, and I figured you’d still be out when we came back, but you started struggling when Zur was trying to set the joint.”

“You... held me down...” The memory was loose, but the impression it left was a lingering sense of betrayal.

“I had to. Like I said, you were getting awfully feisty for someone I thought was asleep.” The Drifter refused to meet his eye, he had to wave to draw the myn’s attention upwards to his regretful expression. “If you were any more awake you might have put up enough of a fight to hurt yourself again. I’m sorry if you were frightened, but I had to hold you still to let Zur work.”

“That’s...” he looked down at his hands, bald brow furrowed, “fine, I guess.”

“How do you feel?”

How to answer? He was upset, but he was resigned to the facts. “Stiff. A little dehydrated. My head kind of hurts. I... need to get up.”

“I don’t think you should be–”

“No,” pointed eye-contact, “I need to get up.”

“Oh, here, let me– Hold on,” Halvard crouched down, letting the Drifter loop his arms over his shoulders. Holding his patient by the waist, he stood, leaning the Drifter against himself. He eased off his grip and bent slightly, letting him slowly take his own weight to stand upright. “Alright?”

“Yes.”

“Let me help you upstairs. Do you need–?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Right.”

Some minutes later the Drifter staggered back downstairs, leaning heavily on the wall and railing with one arm, his left locked tightly against his front. Halvard rushed to intercept him at the base of the stairs, catching him around the shoulders to support him.

“Are you alright?”

The myn spoke through his teeth, “Something tore. Under the bandages, something’s– I can feel it bleeding. I don’t think it’s deep, but I can feel the heat.”

“Here,” Halvard made to pick him up. The Drifter took a step back, a hand up to push him away, but flinched at his own movement. Wrapping his arms around his injured abdomen he relented, leaning into the Guardian and letting himself be scooped up and placed sitting in bed again.

Halvard smirked, a hint of a laugh in his voice again at the myn’s sulky expression, “You’re not a very good patient.”

“I know.”

“At least you got a long rest this time. You really shouldn’t have even been conscious before. I don’t know how you managed it.”

“How long?”

“You slept through the night we set your shoulder, all through yesterday, and most of today. It’s getting towards evening now.”

“No wonder...” the myn murmured to himself. He looked up at Halvard, eyes wide, trying not to look as desperate as he realized he was, “I’m... _really_ hungry.”

“Well, let’s get you something to eat, then. Dedan will be by in a bit to change the dressing on your wound. We can get him to take a look at whatever you’ve managed to strain.” Rather than move to the kitchen, Halvard lingered for a moment, looking him over.

The Drifter followed his attention, “What?”

“I don’t know,” he looked away with a shrug, “I guess I’m just grateful that you’re... feisty. That you’re active. If you were out cold this whole time it’d be lonely looking after you, waiting for you to wake up.” He looked at him again, folding his arms, “Just wish you were a little more cooperative.”

“I don’t like to be touched.”

Halvard blinked. The Drifter held his gaze until he moved away to the kitchen, musing aloud as he went, “That’s not a good reason to be difficult.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I don’t.”

A pause while the Drifter felt the span of his bandages, searching for the spot that had torn. Everything was sore – but he found the spot with a sharp gasp. Halvard leaned around the dividing wall to check on him. “Stew okay?” He nodded. “Care to enlighten me, then?”

“It’s...” he stalled to stifle a cough, feeling broken ribs and ripped flesh burn in protest. He hissed a breath in through his teeth before continuing, voice hoarse and tight “It’s... a myn thing, I guess. None of us like contact. People are either too rough, and it hurts. Or too gentle, and it tickles. It’s always uncomfortable.”

“Here,” Halvard came back with a mug of water, passing it off to him. “Is there just no happy medium?”

The Drifter cleared his throat after a long drink, “Not a lot of people get it right.”

“How about me?”

The myn tilted his head. Nobody had ever asked for feedback before, but he had his answer ready. “You’re a bit too gentle.”

“I’ll try to work on it.” The Drifter pressed his lips together, unsure of how he felt about the offer. Halvard was walking away again, “Food’s almost ready, I’m just warming it up.”

“Thanks.”

Quiet minutes passed. The Guardian returned with a bowl in hand and stood over him for a moment, noting his pained squint, his slight trembling.

“Still hurts?” A nod. “Did you want to lie down for a bit and let it pass?”

“No, I should eat.” He pressed down on the mattress, pushing himself more upright with a groan, “It’s just hard to do this using my arms and not my core.”

“Let me grab some extra pillows to prop you up, then.”

“You don’t have to...” But Halvard had already set down the bowl and begun wedging spare pillows at his sides, and another behind his back for him to lean into. Weighty, malleable pillows, filled with some sort of seed-husks or rice.

“Don’t have to what?” Halvard rested the bowl of stew in the Drifter’s lap.

He looked down at the food, cupping the bowl in his hands, considering its pleasant warmth. He couldn’t look his caretaker in the eye. This was... too much. He’d already done too much, but it felt wrong to say it. The words came out in a shameful whisper, “Don’t have to be so kind...”

He could feel the Guardian’s urge to protest the statement, like a kind of wall that pressed outwards from his very presence, but the human said nothing. Instead, Halvard moved to the kitchen table to give his patient space while he ate.

The food... defied description, in the best possible way. Perhaps it was just his hunger that made it so. He’d gone more than two days without food; even though he’d been resting, his wounds were a severe drain on his strength. But Halvard’s cooking – he had to actively pace himself, not just to keep from getting sick but to enjoy it more. The broth tasted of wine and herbs, vegetables, bits of rabbit tender from their long time in the pot, a hearty sheen and taste of fat despite the lean meat. Halvard must have added extra lard or oil to it, probably not just for the taste but for his sake, too. To give him a boost after coming close to starving. To help him keep his strength up.

He didn’t have to be so kind.

The Drifter ran a finger inside the rim of the bowl, sweeping up the last of the broth and popping his fingertip in his mouth to lick it clean. He chewed his claw.

“Halvard...” He kept his voice low. From across the room he saw the Guardian turn his head. “Thank-you.”

Halvard approached with a tentative smile, taking the bowl from his patient. “Seconds?”

The Drifter shook his head, and spoke when Halvard turned away, stopping him. “I’m sorry.” A pause. Halvard held still. The Drifter continued, still speaking softly, “I don’t want to seem ungrateful for your hospitality, your kindness. I’m just not used to this sort of attention. I’m... _really_ not used to it. I know that I can relax and trust you, but it’s force of habit to be on my guard. I don’t want you to think I’m being rude or lashing out on purpose. All this is... strange to me.” He looked down at his hands, “So, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” the Guardian continued back to the kitchen, talking as he went, “I understand. It took me a long time to settle in when I first moved here. If it makes you feel better, I’ll give you some space. Just don’t stress yourself about it, alright?”

Settle in? Did he expect him to stay? He didn’t bother to protest. Halvard stayed to the other side of the house, giving him space as promised, reading at his kitchen table. Too far to talk across the room.

He was grateful for the silence. It gave him a chance to empty his mind, assess his injuries and situation. The pain from whatever he had accidentally torn had quieted to a hot ache, probably still bleeding a bit, judging by the heat he could feel through the bandages. His right shoulder was stiff and complained when he tested the extremes of its range of motion. The rest of his arm felt fine, if a little weak in the grip. That would return with exercise. His left arm still felt heavy in the splint and it hurt to close his fingers. The wound through his middle, well, the less he thought about it the better. A wave of nausea crept up on him whenever his mind brushed on the memory...

The blackness.

The eye.

A knock at the door jerked him back from the edge of his waking nightmare, leaving him startled and dizzy. Halvard welcomed Dedan in, accompanied by a fragrant rush of evening air. They exchanged hushed pleasantries by the door before Dedan entered, ears pricked up and nose twitching.

“How’s my best customer today?” the old tanuki asked with a hint of sarcasm, setting down his case full of medical supplies by the bed. The Drifter said nothing. Dedan squinted at him and sniffed, “Help me out, here.”

“I strained something and started bleeding again. Beyond that, I’m fine.”

Dedan’s ears pushed forward and he glared in Halvard’s direction, “You let him stand up, didn’t you?”

“It’s not his fault,” the Drifter offered, “I talked him into it. I wanted to see if I could walk.”

The tanuki grunted and turned to head for the sink, pointing approximately at Halvard as he passed, “Don’t let him do that. He has a _hole_ through him and he should be resting. Come wash up, I’ll need your help.”

Dedan perched on a chair at the side of the bed, while Halvard sat behind their shared patient, letting him lean back against himself to stay upright. The elderly tanuki began unwrapping the layers of bandages while the Drifter kept his head turned aside, unable to look at his own wound.

“Comfortable?” the Guardian asked, a courteous near-whisper being so close to his ear. He only grunted in response. “You can lean your head back if you want. Might be easier on your neck.”

There was a logic to it, even if he didn’t appreciate the intimate contact of leaning his head back on his caretaker’s shoulder. The Drifter acquiesced with a small huff, determined to ignore how close he was to Halvard, focussing on the ceiling. The Apothecary and the Guardian chatted while the tanuki worked.

“Yeah, that smells like fresh blood. Shouldn’t have pushed yourself like that. Here, Hal, hold this against his back, I’m about to pull the last layer,” Dedan passed a large pad of gauze to his assistant. The Drifter cringed at the sensation of peeling fabric and cold air against his raw flesh. The touch of fresh gauze and the warmth of Halvard’s hand were welcome relief, on his back at least.

“How’s he doing?”

“Hmm. Going to need more gel for this one. Gods only know how you survived in the first place.”

“I prefer not to think about it,” the Drifter muttered.

“Well, whatever you did, keep doing it I suppose.” Dedan swabbed the skin with a warm, damp cloth, patting it dry, then daubed something cold into his open wound, making him flinch. The sharp-but-earthy smell he vaguely remembered from his first night returned. “You’re probably wondering about this. It’s an antiseptic, analgesic protein-and-lipid-lattice gel. Your cells will metabolize the gel as they grow into the space where it was, enabling tissue regeneration.”

“And the bone?”  
“There’s enough dissolved minerals in the suspension to support bone regrowth, don’t you worry. The important part is that you _give it time to work._ So no more getting up and wandering around until this closes, understand? And don’t you be enabling him, Hal, you big softie. It’s for his own good. Here, hold this in place for me, I’m going to check your back.”

The Drifter held another large pad of gauze to his front while Halvard and Dedan traded places. Halvard sat in front of him, beckoning him to lean forward and offering a hand to hold the gauze pad. Dedan gave the injured warrior’s back the same treatment; cleaning the blood from the surface and daubing more cold gel into the open wound. It felt like a spike of ice had been forced into the void through him.

A spike–

“Hey–” Halvard touched his cheek. The Drifter gasped at the contact, seizing his wrist by reflex.

“Don’t–!”

“Hey, relax!” He was stalled by Halvard’s worried expression. “You tensed up for a second there, are you ok?”

“I... Yes.”

“Halvard I’ll need a hand with the bandages. Need to get them good and tight.”

“Sure thing. Here,” Halvard guided the Drifter’s hand up to his shoulder, “Rest your arms up here while we get you wrapped up.”

His patient complied, again trying to hide a scowl at the excessive contact. Why was Halvard so _warm_? Even through the fabric of his shirt he radiated an unpleasant amount of heat. The Drifter kept himself distracted by focussing on the view out the window over Halvard’s shoulder. At least he was being firmer now, but the snugness of the bandages wasn’t enough to override his involuntary twitches every time he felt someone touch him. He had to do more to divert his attention.

“Dedan, what was in that tea you left for me?”

“Mostly valerian root. Let me guess; had a bad reaction to it, did you?”

“I did. Hallucinations.” He noticed Halvard blink at the statement but say nothing.

“I see, sorry about that. Given the amount of blood you lost, I figured it was safer to give you something to keep you asleep rather than actual painkillers.”

The Drifter nodded, “Most...” would Dedan even know the word? “Most of my kind react poorly to it. To sedatives in general. Standard analgesics are preferable.”

“Myn metabolize drugs faster than most other species.” So he did know. “I’d have to watch the dosage on whatever I gave you to account for both that and the blood loss.” The tanuki tugged at the wrapped bandages, pulling the last bit of length taut. “How’s that, too tight?”

The Drifter shook his head.

“Good. Let’s just secure that... Now then, plenty of rest, as I said.” Dedan pointed a claw at Halvard as the Drifter lowered his arms, “And don’t let him get up. You should be fine with the analgesic in the gel for a bit. I’ll see what I can rustle up from the shop to get you some proper painkillers.”  
A silent nod.

“You should come by the shop to talk sometime.” The old tanuki packed up his bag, a smile on his grizzled snout, “Don’t have much experience treating myn, would be nice to know more.”

Halvard cut in with perhaps a bit more urgency than was needed, “What about his arm?”

“Oh, right. Let’s have you lie down so I can take a look at that.”

The Drifter bit back a numbed sigh but allowed himself a sullen eye-roll –not that either of the others could tell– as Halvard helped him lower himself back down onto the bed. This time he watched the Apothecary work, unwinding the bandages and picking apart the splint. He’d seen broken limbs before, on himself and other myn. Bruised an ugly purple and swollen but sitting straight. Dedan checked its alignment, quite clearly working by feel rather than sight. He could hear the tanuki sniffing aloud; once or twice the damp leathery nose passed close over his skin.

“Seems to be in order, everything’s where it should be and no necrosis. Going to put some fresh material on it for comfort’s sake.” Dedan shook his head while he worked, ducking down off the side of the bed on occasion to reach his bag, “Shame I don’t have the stuff for a proper cast right now, you really could use one. Keep this bound up tight and have it horizontal as often as you can. Keep it in a sling if you’re going to be upright. How’s the sensation?”

“Tactile seems fine. I don’t think there’s any nerve damage. Range of motion is bad, and the grip is weak, but I can train that back once it’s healed.”

Dedan yipped a short laugh, “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

The Drifter looked away. Halvard astutely took it as an admission of guilt, crossing his arms, “You think he’d have learned to be a better patient by now.”

Dedan chuckled, standing and picking up his bag, “Ah, leave him be, Hal. He’s just proud. Doesn’t like to be helped. Well, if that’s all you needed me for, I’m going to head back home. I’ll be by more often to check on that wound now that you’re conscious, so you’d best get used to it.”

“...I’ll try.”

“That’s the spirit. I’ll see you around, Hal.”

“Thanks again, Dedan.”

The Drifter took as deep a breath he could manage of the warm, sweet evening air that Dedan’s departure let in. Halvard noticed the reverie in his expression and smiled.

“It’s cooling off now, but want me to open the window for a bit?”

“If you don’t mind.”

He settled back to take in the fresh air. Yes. The smell of summer fields, warm earth, a hint of past rain. Both a comfort and a bitter reminder he was stuck indoors until he recovered. Halvard caught that too and sat at the foot of the bed.

“Hey, don’t dwell on it. You’re not trapped here, you know. You just need some time to heal.”

He nodded slowly. It was hard not to feel trapped. And not to feel as if he may be misleading his host. He had no intention of staying longer than necessary, he already felt like a burden.

Earnest, unpleasant thoughts spilled over into a pensive murmur, “He was right...”

“Who, Dedan? I mean, I suppose I could have carried you upstairs...”

“Not that... I’m too proud. It’s hard to accept help from others. And I hate feeling indebted to people.”

“You don’t have to feel like you owe me anything.”

“I do.” 

“Well... If it makes you feel any better, I never did get to thank you for all your help. And for saving _my_ life. So, can we call it even?”

The Drifter took a moment to consider, nodded. “If you wish.”

Halvard nodded back, then turned to look out the window. The sunset painted the clouds an array of pinks and oranges. At length he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, hanging his head. His voice was low, gravelly from the lack of energy in it.

“I don’t know what I was thinking, going out there alone in my condition... I guess I just wanted to get things over with, no matter how they ended. I didn’t expect to make it back. Even after you found me, I... I don’t know.”

The Drifter tilted his head, speaking softly as well, “Do you regret telling me the things you did?”

Halvard sat up, “Not at all. I’m glad, actually. Not a lot of people in town know much about my past. It’s... I’m glad I told you.”

“It means a lot that you trust me enough to share.”

The Guardian smiled, his expression distant, “It’s easy to trust someone who’ll help you at their own expense. Dedan told me you were having an attack yourself when you brought me in, but you refused treatment until I was stable.”

“You were in worse shape than I, I had to be sure you were alright.”

Halvard nodded again, still smiling. “Either way. You saved my life, and I yours in turn. Let’s just call it even, eh?”

“That’s fair... Thank-you, again.”


	5. Part 4 Interlude

Grass gave way to bare ground, then to sand, as he traveled south. The wind here carried a damp scent, a petrichor tainted with the smell of chemicals. No one in town had been further south than the broken-down dregs just past the town’s heart. No one had been able to tell him what lay past the gate.

Passing under the shadow of the ancient arch, the Drifter stalled. The Jackal was there, waiting for him, seated on its haunches in the sand. When he approached, it stood and began to walk away. Leading him, he knew from times before, towards the man in the magenta cape whose quest he shared.

The Guardian knelt slouched forward in the sand, facing away from the Drifter – who quickened his pace as he neared. In the sand around him was strewn the smoking, leaking remains of several machines. His weapon lay close at hand on the ground, and his sprite hovered nearby, flashing warnings to its unresponsive owner. The Drifter’s own sprite hovered over to interface with it, while he stepped around the other man to crouch in front of him.

The Guardian’s breastplate and the front flanges of his helmet were streaked with blood. He could see blue eyes in the shadow of his helmet, open but unseeing. He clasped the Guardian’s shoulder and shook him to get his attention.

“Guardian.”

Blue eyes blinked and focussed on him. Shocked back into clarity the Guardian coughed, shaking and hunching forward, blood spraying from the front slit of his helmet. He gurgled and struggled to speak.

“I... I’m sorry...”

“Shh. It’s okay.” The Drifter beckoned his sprite closer to read its logs. Medical cues from the Guardian’s bot; vitals warnings that confirmed his fear, the sickness was getting the better of him. He was in no shape to be out here on his own, but there was no need to remind him. Scolding him wouldn’t help anything now.

“Drifter...”

“Hush.”

He retrieved the Guardian’s sword and sheathed it across his back.

“D– Drifter–”

“ _Hush_ , Guardian. I’m bringing you home.” The other man’s eyes had begun to lose focus again, sliding shut. The Drifter knelt in front of him, holding the sides of his helmet with both hands. “Hey, look at me,” it was hard to sound encouraging, his own voice hoarse from the illness, “I’m bringing you home, Guardian.”

The Drifter shifted his weight, getting his feet under himself and tucking his body under one of the Guardian’s arms. With a drawn grunt, he levered upwards, standing and taking his companion’s weight across his shoulders. The Guardian coughed, the force of it shaking them both. He took a few steps and stalled, feeling the other man’s weight snag in the sand. He patted the Guardian’s back with one arm.

“Can you walk? You don’t have to stand, just move your feet. I can’t drag you.”

There was a muffled groan and the Drifter felt the Guardian adjusting himself. When he began to walk again, the Guardian moved with him. The two of them started northward.

Some distance down the road, the Guardian’s rattling breaths turned into strained words. The Drifter hesitated for an instant, but pressed on, his companion struggling to speak into his ear.

“I... had a wife. Sigrid. And a d–daughter... Clara... My... my little C–Clara... I miss them so much...”

The Drifter stopped a moment to rest, patting his companion’s back again. “Okay, now. That’s enough.” When he began to walk again, the Guardian continued.

“They... were sick too. Like me. I tried so hard to– to find a cure... I tried...”

“That’s enough, now.”

“I came home from... gathering herbs, one day, and they–” a violent fit of coughs racked his frame, making the Drifter stagger, “They were already gone... Just gone. C–curled up in bed together like they were asleep...”

The Guardian fell silent for a time. The Drifter crossed the dilapidated bridge from the southern wastes into the dregs. He could feel himself growing unsteady, feel his chest tightening and his own breathing becoming labored. The ruined buildings felt taller, more distant than they should have, like his perception was stretching and pulling away.

His breath became hot, coppery. He could taste blood when the Guardian spoke again. They were within sight of the town entrance.

“I left. I left them there. I couldn’t... There was nothing anymore... For years I...” he coughed again, but there was no effort or force behind it; a frail huffing bubbled with blood. His voice was fading, “K–killed so many and... Traveled so... far... I...”

“ _Hush,_ ” he hissed, fighting back a coughing fit of his own.

“I’m so sorry...”

“ _Hey!_ ” The Drifter called out to the town guard, trying to wave for their attention. When the guard jogged over, he handed the Guardian off to them, his speech as concise as possible. “Take him home. I’ll get help.”

“Right, but you’re–”

“ _Take him home._ ”

The Drifter stumbled away, stifling coughs into his scarf, heading to the Apothecary’s shop as fast as he was able. He fell against the doorframe and the old tanuki was at his side in a flash.

“Drifter! Did you need another–?” 

He pulled away, struggling for the words, “No. Guardian– home. Help, please...”

The tanuki’s ears flicked back, “Let’s get you looked after first–”

“No. Help– help _him._ ”

The tanuki gathered his equipment without question and set a quicker pace than the Drifter could manage, so he followed, meeting him at the Guardian’s home. While the Apothecary and the guard tended to their injured friend, the Drifter staggered into the kitchen and hunched over the sink, succumbing to his coughing fit at last.

By the time the Apothecary and the guard had finished their work, the Drifter had recovered himself somewhat. He sat at the Guardian’s kitchen table, head down and nestled on his arms, focussed on calming his breathing. The tanuki placed a hand on the table, rather than on his arm or shoulder, to get his attention.

“It took some doing, but he’s stable now.”

“Thank-you.”

The Apothecary folded his arms when the Drifter looked up at him, “This isn’t usually how triage works, you know. You should have let me treat you first.”

“I had to know he was safe.”

“Well, like I said, he’s stable. Will you let me take a look at you now?”

The Drifter nodded and the tanuki pulled up a chair to sit facing him. The Apothecary checked him over with a stethoscope adapted for his pointed ears. His white brows furrowed as he listened.

“Breathe deeply for me?”

The Drifter obeyed, trying to hide his reaction when a sting of pain shot through his chest.

“You flinched.”

“It hurts.”

“To breathe?”

“Deeply, yes.”

The Apothecary shook his head, taking off his stethoscope, “You shouldn’t be pushing yourself so hard. You sound as bad as he does.”

“You say that like I have a choice.”

The tanuki squinted in his direction, ears pushing forward, but he offered no comment. Instead he stood and began to gather his tools in the other room, calling over to the Drifter.

“I assume you’re going back out there once you’ve rested up.”

“I have to.”

“Well, come see me before you leave. I’ve got a few doses left that should stave off another attack, should you have one.”

“Thank-you.”

“And you _will_ rest up before going back out, right?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” the Apothecary paused in the doorway to turn his head back to the Drifter as if remembering something, “What’s driving you two so hard?”

“We’ll have a cure by the end of this.”

The Apothecary blinked, tone turning grim, “Do you really believe that?”

“I have to.”


	6. Part 5 - Read

Halvard laid a folded shirt on the edge of the bed next to his guest. A few days had passed since the Drifter had woken properly. The myn was sitting on the bed combing his fingers through his hair with one hand, using the other to dab at it with a towel. His coarse white hair hung down just past his jaw, long enough to be worn pulled back, but for now hung loose while he dried it. He worked with his eyes closed, a faint smile on his thin lips.

“Feeling better after a wash?”

“Much better, thank-you. Working around the bandages was annoying, but I do feel better.”

“Sorry I don’t have anything smaller to loan you.”

“It’s alright. The shorts are a little big,” he touched the shirt at his side, “But an oversized shirt is fine. More comfortable with the way my arms are.”

Halvard glanced away for a moment. He felt like he was hovering, standing too close to his guest. “I know you said not to worry about staring, but...”

“It’s alright. Really.”

“Well... Mind if I sit?”

“Go ahead.”

Halvard sat beside the Drifter with a heavy breath. He was still unsure how to process the myn’s invitation to examine him. On the one hand he appreciated the frankness of it. It was a helpful offer to someone who admittedly knew very little about myn. On the other hand, the very fact the Drifter was so straightforward about it made him ashamed of his own ignorance. The Drifter offered because he was used to being stared at, questioned and examined, made to feel alien or unnatural. In accepting the offer, he felt he was implicitly supporting that perspective. It felt wrong.

Still, he did want to know more about his guest beyond tending his injuries. To reject the offer and be prudish about it, ironically, would be ruder than taking the opportunity to ‘stare.’

He shifted a bit, as did the Drifter, catching his cue and offering a better view of his back. He had smooth, sky-coloured skin, broken by the span of undyed cotton bandages around his middle. What was visible was crisscrossed with raised silvery scars. He looked like he’d be soft to the touch, but Halvard knew better than to test him.

The Drifter slung his towel over the headboard and breathed a stilted sigh, “I must look like a butcher’s block,” he rasped.

“It’s... something. You’ve certainly seen some action,” he kept his reply gentle and earnest. “Not a fan of armour, I take it.”

“Too heavy, not great for travelling. And when my illness got worse I just didn’t have the stamina.” He reached his right hand over the opposite shoulder, scratching at the scab on a recent cut, “Plus, I’ve... been around for a while...”

“How– If you don’t mind me asking...?”

“Not at all.” He pondered for a moment, “As a bit of context, I suppose, you have to understand that myn don’t reproduce. All the myn alive today were created before or during the War of Titans.”

“They were... _Created?_ ”

“You never made it into the southern labs,” the Drifter turned to sit facing more towards him, a cold and distant look in his dark eyes, “That’s the place where we were made.”

Halvard buried his surprise. Now wasn’t the time to pull that thread. Instead he did the rough math, counting backwards to the approximate dates of the old war. “So, if you were alive then, that’d make you... Gods, you’re something like eighty or ninety years old, aren’t you?”

The Drifter nodded, “Much of it I don’t remember. But yes.”

“How far back do your memories go?”

He squinted into nothing, “About forty or fifty years.”

“And how long have you been ill?”

The Drifter took a slow breath, leaning forward to prop his forearms on his knees, flinching when he bent his core, “Over a decade... Closer to two, maybe.” He glanced sidelong at Halvard, “You?”

“Six or seven years, I think.”

The myn held his gaze. They sat in silence for a few moments, considering one another. Halvard found his attention drawn to the Drifter’s scars again. Some stretched from his bare shoulders up to his neck. There was a nick taken out of one of his pointed ears. His arms, of course, were heavily marked as well. That tiny urge to touch him was still there. Halvard had his own share of scars, but what did that raised tissue feel like on another person?

At length the Drifter pushed himself to sit upright, cringing at the motion, left arm across his abdomen.

“You alright?”

“Just hurts to sit like that.” He braced his right arm behind himself and arched backwards in a tentative stretch. Halvard caught a glimpse of pointed teeth in his grimace of discomfort before he relaxed, rubbing his back with one hand and his front with the other. “Halvard, may I ask you a favour? Two favours, actually.”

He left a longer pause than he should have, taking a beat to realize it was not a rhetorical question. “Oh, of course.”

“Could you help me put this on?” The Drifter touched the folded shirt at his side, “I’m going to have trouble with the sleeves.”

“Sure, here...” Halvard took the shirt and shook it open. He’d chosen a button-up shirt, so his patient wouldn’t have to struggle to pull it over his head. He rolled up the sleeves, helping the Drifter thread his arms through the holes one at a time. The garment was far too large. Even though the myn was deceptively well-muscled for his size, he was simply not broad enough to fill the shoulders of one of Halvard’s shirts.

“Thanks.”

“What was the other one?”

“Um...” The Drifter looked away. His expression darkened. It was difficult to read exactly what the look meant, but it seemed a mix of annoyed and embarrassed. He spoke in a resigned rasp, “Could you help me tie my hair back?” Without waiting for a reply, he rolled a soft elastic from its place on his wrist and offered it to Halvard. “I can’t reach back far enough, and...”

“It’s alright. Here, turn around.”

“I’m sorry if I get jumpy. You know I’m not used to being touched.”

“I’ll try to be quick.”

He propped the elastic around his fingers but stalled before he even touched the Drifter. The last time he had done something like this... Halvard looked down at his hands. The last person he had done something like this for had been his daughter.

The Drifter’s quiet words prodded his mind back from his bitter reflection, “If you’re not comfortable, you can just leave it.”

“No, it’s... I just got distracted, it’s fine. Ready?”

An affirmative hum. Halvard did his best to be quick and concise about his movements; sweeping his fingertips back along the myn’s temples –avoiding his ears, though he still prompted a reflexive twitch– and gathering his short hair together, wrapping and twisting the elastic to keep it in place in a small ponytail. A few wisps had escaped near the front, but the Drifter was already tucking them into place.

“Is that too tight?”

“No. Thank-you.” He looked back over his shoulder, “Really, thank-you... Is something wrong?”

“I just have a lot on my mind,” Halvard murmured. He felt bad being evasive, but it really wasn’t something he should concern the Drifter with. He pushed himself to his feet, “You sound a little rough, can I get you some water?”

Rather than watch him go, the Drifter lowered his head, “No thanks... This is just my voice,” he lifted a hand to his throat, “This is just how I sound.”

“Right, you’ve been sick for much longer than I have.” It was chilling, to hear that dry and rasping voice aver that it was permanent, to know that his illness was to blame. “Still, can I get you anything?”

“Tea, maybe? And... something to read?” He looked up at his host, a shy smile trying to form on his face, “Resting these past few days has been nice, but I’d like something to occupy my mind.”

Halvard found himself smiling, “I’ve been noticing you get antsy when you’re bored.”

The Drifter showed his teeth for an instant in a grin, rather than a grimace, “You know I’m a bad patient.”

Halvard offered him a hand to pull him upright, “Come take a look at the collection.”

Once on his feet the Drifter took a few sharp breaths, adjusting to being upright. He let Halvard guide him around the dividing wall to the large shelf by the kitchen.

“I’ve spent a while accumulating these, most of them I still haven’t translated yet.”

“I could give you a hand with that, if you like.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Halvard let the myn lean on the shelf with one arm, other hand scanning along the spines of his books. A sly smile crept across his guest’s face. “What?”

“Where did you get these from?”

“The library up north, why?”

“I suspect some of these aren’t quite what you think they are. Do you mind if...” Dark eyes narrowed, then relaxed along with his smile, “Can I organize these for you?”

“Go right ahead. Let me get you a chair.” Halvard slid one of his kitchen chairs over to the tall shelf, along with a tiered cart from his work area. “Here, so you have something to put them on.”

“Thank-you.” The Drifter sat and began combing through the shelves in more detail, pulling books down, skimming their covers, and piling them on the cart.

“You can read these at a glance? I have to rely on a cypher most of the time.”

“I can. It’s been a valuable skill, though I never remember learning the old language.”

Halvard crossed the space to retrieve his sprite, then pulled up a chair on the other side of the cart to join his guest. “Going to make a proper list of these. If I’m getting in the way just let me know.” The Drifter nodded. They worked in silence together for some time; Halvard using his sprite to scan and catalogue the cover and spine of each book, the Drifter simply reading and sorting.

Halvard took a moment to sit back and stretch, glancing outside. The sky had been overcast all day, it seemed to be darkening now in the late afternoon. He had a few errands to run before his evening patrol. He hoped the weather would hold.

“Drifter... may I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“You said that myn were... _made_ in the southern labs. Can I ask you a bit about that?”

The Drifter stalled with a book in hand. Although his expression didn’t change, Halvard felt him tense. “What do you want to know?”

“Just... I want to hear your thoughts.”

The myn set the book on his lap. He closed his eyes and took a breath – that caught shallow because of his injury – before beginning. Haltingly.

“I’ve spent a long time hearing that myn ‘aren’t real.’ That we’re ‘soulless’ or ‘subhuman’ because we’re artificial. Until recently I didn’t believe that we’d even been created. I told myself I’d believe the proof when I saw it.” He read the cover of the book, then set it in one of the piles on the cart without looking. “Well... I saw it... On the one hand, it was sort of liberating to finally know the truth. On the other, it was disappointing to know that those people... They were right. In a way.”

“You don’t really believe them, do you?”

“No... But it’s hard to hear that sort of thing over and over for decades and not have some of it stick.”

Halvard’s brow furrowed, “I don’t think of you like that.”

“I know you don’t...” The Drifter’s expression softened, he looked sidelong at his host. “I’m grateful for that. For you.” He reached up to take another book. Rather than read its cover he simply set it on his lap, closing his eyes with a sigh, “The world needs more kind people.”

He was unsure of what to say. There was a simple, poetic truth to the Drifter’s words. A heartbreaking reality. He hesitated, then reached out to his guest, palm up, intending to take his hand. The Drifter opened his eyes and looked over. Seeing the open hand, he passed Halvard the book. The Guardian smiled and let his sprite scan the cover. He’d already forgotten the myn was touch-shy.

“How are we doing?” he asked, reviewing the piles they had assembled.

“We’re making good progress, I think,” the Drifter gestured to the tall shelf and the space they had emptied on it. “I’m going to put some of them back and start introducing some sort of order. Anything in particular you want me to do with them?”

“Whatever makes sense.”

The Drifter nodded and began to re-shelve some of the books. “May I ask _you_ a question, Halvard?”

“Of course.”

“What is it like to love someone?”

The Guardian blinked, finding himself gaping.

The Drifter noticed his expression, bald brows coming together. He tilted his head, looking away, “You were married before, you had a child. I’ve never had a family or a partner. What’s it like?”

Halvard found himself stumbling, “Well, you’ve had close friends before, right?”

“Only a few.”

“It’s sort of...” he couldn’t keep the disbelief out of his voice, “Really? You’ve never had _anyone_? You’ve been around for a _while_ , you’ve never...?”

The Drifter shook his head. “Myn don’t reproduce,” he said simply, “We don’t form that sort of bond that humans and other species do. I’ve never felt strongly for anyone. That’s why I’m curious.”

Still grappling with the question, Halvard only managed an inelegant, “Huh.”

“That’s another reason people demonize us,” the Drifter picked up a book, shelving it with pointed restraint, “‘Myn don’t feel love.’ They must be evil or unnatural... Inhuman.”

“That’s not...” Halvard shook his head, “That’s hardly fair. Drifter, I– I’m so sorry.”

The myn shrugged.

“Well... I want to have an answer for you, but I have a few things to do before I go on my evening patrol, so I won’t be back for a while. I don’t want to leave in the middle of a conversation–”

“It’s fine,” short, but the Drifter amended with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be fine.”

Halvard stood and began moving to gather his gear, “I’m going to think it over while I’m out. I’ll have an answer for you when I come back, I promise.”

“Could you do just one more thing before you go?” Halvard stalled. “Could you put the kettle on for me?”

\\\\-\|/-//

Halvard returned late in the evening. The sun had since set, and it had indeed begun to rain; steady, but not heavy. He left his boots by the door and shook off his cape before hanging it up. He removed his armour and wiped it down. Thankfully it had been an uneventful patrol.

The lights in the main room were off, but the kitchen side was illuminated. He found the Drifter seated at his kitchen table, pen in hand. A book, a pad of paper, a mug, and a teapot before him. Focussed on writing, the myn nodded a greeting when his host approached.

Halvard checked the teapot by picking it up. Satisfied the contents were still warm, he helped himself to a mug and sat across from the Drifter. He spent a moment drinking before he realized he would have to be the one to speak first.

“What have you got there?”  
“Recipes.”

“Tired of my cooking already?”

“No,” The Drifter marked his place in the book with his thumb, flipping the book closed for a moment to show the cover, “I picked this one to translate first because I thought it would be easy, and that you might find it interesting.”

“How’s it going?”

“Most of the measurements are outdated, or eyeballed,” he tapped a scrap piece of paper covered in rough calculations, “So I’m converting to modern measures and approximates as I go.”

“Wow... Thank-you.”

“I’m just grateful for something to occupy me.”

“I’m sorry there hasn’t been much to do that’s easy enough on your arm.”

“It’s fine...” The Drifter set down his pen and took a sip of his tea, “How was your patrol?”

“Damp. And boring. Dirks don’t like the rain.”

The Drifter nodded, “Daisy stopped by, the otter-woman who tends the gardens. She left a package for you. It’s by the door.”

“It’s probably for _you_ , actually.” Halvard made to stand but saw the way the Drifter was following his movements and decided to stay seated, earning a subtle smile from his guest. He looked towards the door instead, spotting a paper-wrapped package on a crate. “I commissioned her to make a new set of clothes for you, since your shirt ended up... well, destroyed.”

“Oh...” The Drifter looked down into his drink.

Halvard watched his expression go from confused to concerned, or perhaps annoyed. He ran a hand over his face, shutting his eyes tightly.

“Halvard, you don’t–”

“Drifter, listen,” he reached out brush the back of the myn’s hand with his, “I’m not doing this to make you feel like you owe me–”

“Just–!” the Drifter flinched, withdrawing his hand, holding it up to forestall any further protest, “Let me pay you back. Please.”

Halvard took a breath, “Alright.”

“How much do I owe you?”

He pressed his lips together, knowing his guest wouldn’t like the answer, “She didn’t charge me for it.”

The Drifter huffed an angry sigh, pushing himself to his feet with a gasp and a grimace of pain, turning towards the kitchen.

“Hey– _hey_ ,” Halvard stood and rounded the table, motioning him back down, “Sit _down_ , will you? You going to hurt yourself.” The Drifter obeyed with a sound that verged on a snarl. Halvard let his hands drop to his sides, brow furrowing, “We agreed we were even. Besides, can’t a guy do something kind for his friend?”

The Drifter blinked, eyes going wide. He turned away to lean on the table, hunching over. Halvard rested a hand on the back of his chair.

“Want me to make a fresh pot of tea, since I’m up?”

“...Yes, please.”

He let the next few minutes pass in silence, giving his guest time to settle while he set the kettle to boil and brewed another pot of tea. The rain outside continued, falling heavier as the air cooled after dark. Halvard sat across from the Drifter again; the myn was leaning his head in one hand, elbow on the table. His eyes had a distant look. Half-open, reflecting the glint of the yellow-orange lamplight from their black depths. He blinked and perked up when Halvard borrowed his mug to top it up, sliding it back across the table.

“Here.”

The Drifter took the mug, rough voice hushed, “Thank-you.” He took a moment to consider his drink, looking down. “You really think of me as a friend?”

“Of course. Is it really that surprising?”

“Just... strange to hear it out loud, I suppose.”

Halvard poured his own mug, “I have an answer for you, by the way. About what you asked me earlier.”

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten.”

“I spent some time thinking about it while I was out. Loving someone... Is a lot like having a very close friend. Someone you trust completely. You share their strengths, their joy, but also their weaknesses, their struggles and their grief. Everything. You share yourself, emotionally and physically. You feel at peace, you feel comfortable around them. You support one another, protect one another. Either as a partner or... family...”

Halvard paused to take a deep breath and a long sip of tea. He could feel his chest and voice tightening. It had been a long time since he had thought seriously, deeply, about what that kind of bond meant. He’d tried for so long to put it out of his mind.

The Drifter was enthralled. Dark eyes keen and focused on him, on his words. The low tone of his voice belied the intensity of his attention. 

“Is it painful?”

“It can be.”

The Drifter tilted his head. It seemed that wasn’t what he had meant. The memories, not the emotion. Halvard nodded slowly with the realization. The answer to both versions of that question was the same.

“It can be... Losing someone like that, someone you’re so intertwined with, it’s like losing a part of yourself.” It chilled him how close he’d come to that again. Halvard took a sip of his tea, trying to lighten up, “Love... It doesn’t have to be physical, necessarily. You know, ‘romantic.’ Love can be platonic. Even just a friendship is a form of love.”

The Drifter sat back, closing his eyes. He took up his mug in both hands and drained it, setting it down with a catlike smile. He mused aloud, voice smooth and confident for the first time, “Humans... fascinate me. They like to put labels on things.” He opened his eyes, “Anything they can get away with. It all has to fit into neat little categories. Even something I understood to be abstract, like ‘love,’ has different categories. I bet they all have different names, too.”

“Well...” Halvard faltered – trying to remember those selfsame names. The Drifter was right, but he couldn’t help feeling just a little bit attacked.

“I didn’t mean it as a criticism, just an observation. Like I said, it fascinates me.” His thumbs traced the rim of his mug, “You fascinate me.”

Should he be flattered? Concerned? “I do?”

The Drifter hummed an affirmative.

It felt better not to pursue the statement; he opted to take it as a compliment rather than overthink the intent.

“Drifter, there’s something else I wanted to ask you,” Halvard scratched at his beard, “I don’t really know how to put this, but... ‘Myn’... Where does that come from?”

“I don’t really know,” The Drifter tilted his head, his look becoming distant again, “I’m not sure if anyone knows. It just... sounds right. Like it’s a word we all know somehow. I wonder if it’s something old that’s been left over in our minds...”

The myn mused silently, propping his cheek in his good hand, elbow on the table. Halvard watched the Drifter with a gentle smile, “There’s a lot you don’t know about yourself, isn’t there?”

“I’m not sure if I would say they’re things I don’t know. Just things I don’t remember...” The Drifter took on a glazed look for a moment, then straightened up suddenly, “My sprite!”

“Hm?”

“My sprite– I think it was damaged, but I can repair it. I should send you the video of the southern labs.”

Halvard’s smile faded. While the prospect of viewing the footage was intriguing, he was wary of what exactly he might see. Still... “I’d appreciate it, but, you’re sure?”

“There’s no point in keeping it from you, if it’s something you want to see. That’s what being a Drifter is about; gathering and sharing knowledge.” He set aside his pen, paper, and book. He picked up his mug and stood, bringing it to the kitchen to rinse it out and set it aside to dry, “It’ll save you the trip, at least. That didn’t work out too well for you last time...”

Halvard took his own mug and the teapot and followed him, setting them down in the sink. “Hey...” He lifted a hand when the Drifter turned to him; the myn shied away but he lowered his hand to show he meant it to be a gentle touch. The Drifter held still, letting Halvard put a hand on his shoulder with a nervous blink. “Thank-you again, for dragging me all the way back home.”

“You had already done the same for me.”

Halvard let go of his guest, “I’ll scrounge up some parts, so you can work on your sprite tomorrow.”

“Thank-you... I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”

“Have a good rest.”

“Thanks...”


End file.
